Buffy: Therapist for the Theologically Insane
by Athena Parthenos
Summary: Buffy realizes that she is the only one standing between Spike and insanity. What will she do about it? *FINISHED*
1. Persuasion

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"  
  
Summary: Buffy realizes that she is the only one standing between Spike and insanity. What will she do about it?  
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, Anya, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.   
  
Author's Note: Spike? Redemption? Good times.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Willow jogged down the stairs into the darkened basement of the school, checking her watch. Hopefully she would find Buffy here, but she couldn't imagine why her friend would be down in the basement, unless. . . .  
  
Angry shouts greeted her ears. Willow sighed, peering into the largest room. A painful sight awaited her -- Spike was pressed against the wall, eyes shut as if expecting a blow, face contorted. Buffy was inches from him, screaming at him.  
  
"Get out of this basement, Spike! This place only makes you worse! Besides that, what are you going to do if someone finds you down here? Huh?" Buffy's hair had fallen out of the bun at the nape of her neck; her face flushed with anger. "Get out of here, find yourself a nice crypt with lots of dead things, and get on with your unlife!"  
  
"I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. He sank to his knees, his trembling visible even from where Willow stood, fifteen feet away. "Ican'tcan'tcan't." He clutched his head, moaning. "Can't do it, can't do it, luv. . . ."  
  
"I don't want to see you in here again, Spike," Buffy said, breathing heavily. "Ever." She turned and strode purposely to the doorway, then stopped, spotting Willow. "Will! What -- what are you doing here?"  
  
Willow swallowed, looking at Spike, who was now sitting against the wall and staring at the ceiling. She turned to Buffy. "One of my classes got canceled, Buffy. I, um, was thinking we could go to lunch and I stopped by, but you weren't in your office and I -- I thought you might be down here." She shrugged uneasily.  
  
"I was, um, talking. To Spike," Buffy said, not meeting Willow's eyes.  
  
"I kinda got that," Willow said evenly.   
  
Buffy hurried past Willow and to the stairs, then turned, a large, unnatural smile on her face. "Well, we'd better get going to lunch then, huh, Willow? I only have an hour left of my break -- what do you think, burgers or Chinese?" She said this all very quickly, and Willow took a deep breath.   
  
"Chinese. I'm just not in the mood today for, you know, charred cow gristle." She watched as Buffy began to climb the stairs, and followed suit. Behind her, Spike let out a long, tortured groan, and Willow closed her eyes.  
  
*****  
  
When the voices of Willow and Buffy faded Spike straightened up from the wall and began to pace, snapping his fingers, his eyes wild. "Get out of here," he muttered, "got to get out, somewhere else, make her happy. Try so hard and fail like always. What do I do? What do I do?" Suddenly he let out a cry and dropped down to the ground, shielding his face.  
  
He crouched in the empty basement, muscles taut, face contorted. His eyes were glazed, focusing not on the cheerless gray walls, but on something only he could see.  
  
In the darkness of his mind, the memories echoed. He saw faces, heard voices, felt flesh, smelt and tasted blood. He took a deep, rattling breath, and buried his face in his hands.  
  
The faces of little children stared accusingly at him. They were white, pinched, so petrified that they were beyond tears. The terror in their eyes burned him; their soft youthful voices cut into his mind, his heart. They pleaded with him -- "Please, Mister, don't hurt me, please, stop!" -- and then, horribly, fell silent. He remembered the sudden lightness of their small bodies and he recoiled from the thought, knowing he and he alone had done that to them.  
  
Other memories flooded him. He felt the softness of the flesh of a human neck against his lips, felt the way his fangs broke the uppermost layer of skin to puncture the dermis, to slide through the fat. The blood spurted into his mouth, hot, delicious, copper-sweet liquid trickling down his throat. He drank and drank until the body in his arms went limp and the blood turned cool. And he dropped the useless corpse upon the ground and sloped away, still hungry, so hungry, always so terribly hungry --  
  
He screamed in agony. He leapt to his feet and searched for some way to remove the misery, the fear, the pain that he had wrought. His eyes, wild and lolling, landed upon the window in the door across the room. Panting, he ran to it and punched through the window, shattered glass going everywhere. Shards stuck out of his hand at weird angles and he savored the pain, managing a twisted smile.  
  
But it wasn't enough. A memory came howling back at him, so strong it sent him reeling into the concrete column behind him. His jaw went slack as he remembered the face of the young blonde woman, filled with her fear and her shock as he forced her down to the floor, determined to do what he wanted with her, determined to have his way. She sobbed, struggled against him, crying out in pain and horror as he pressed himself against her. He heard the sound of ripping cloth, the feel of soft flesh beneath his groping hands. With one last burst of effort she flung him to the wall, and he stopped, stunned. Seeing her face he fled, ashamed --  
  
"Evil," he gasped. "Monster. Wrong, so wrong." He closed his eyes in pain, choking back a sob and wiping the sweat from his forehead. The feel of his hand against his skin stung.  
  
Puzzled, he looked at his hand and saw as if for the first time granules of glass glinting in his flesh. His eyes narrowed. It had not been enough. He would have to punish himself more harshly to drive out the evil festering within him.  
  
He whirled and saw before him the concrete column. He smiled grimly, then darted forward and slammed his head into the structure with supernatural strength.   
  
Pain exploded around him. Stars danced before his eyes on a curtain of inky pitch; a throbbing, red slice of pain bisected his vision. He staggered backwards, his movements jerky, sloppy. He moaned and pawed clumsily at his face, then stumbled and fell to the cement floor.  
  
His breath came in quick gasps. Rivulets of blood mingled with the tears and sweat on his face. He lay there on his side, knees drawn up, arms tucked in to his chest. He shivered, though it was not particularly cold.  
  
His lips formed words, formed them over and over again. Desperately, weakly, he muttered, "I'm a bad man. I'm a bad man."  
  
Blessedly, consciousness soon took its leave as the whirling pain inside his head overwhelmed him. He lay slack and limp on the floor, blood caking in small lines on his forehead, his face.   
  
Silence filled the basement.  
  
*****  
  
Willow picked anemically at the rice on her plate, realizing she had been doing so for five minutes only when Buffy asked, "Willow, are you planning on eating that, or do I need to eat it for you?"  
  
"Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just --" She stared down at her plate, wondering how to put words to what she was thinking.   
  
"What?" Buffy asked, concern in her face and voice.   
  
Willow hesitated. "It's Spike."  
  
The concern vanished, and Buffy let out a short, sharp laugh. "*Spike?* You're worried about *him*?" Disbelief was in her eyes.  
  
"Yeah, I am." Willow fidgeted with her chopsticks, continuing to poke at her rice. "Buffy -- why can't you just -- why can't you help him?"  
  
Buffy stared at Willow, her mouth falling open. "Help him? Will, are you insane? He's a vampire!"  
  
Willow set down her chopsticks and rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward. Her face was earnest. "That never stopped you before."  
  
Buffy looked away. "That was different. I was -- I was confused then. I was -- stupid."  
  
"He still needs your help."   
  
"Why should I want to help him?" she asked bitterly.  
  
"Buffy. . . ." Willow bit her lip. "Look. Imagine that you have no control over yourself. That you're -- evil." Her voice fell to a whisper, and Buffy leaned forward to catch her words. "Imagine you do something terrible -- something *foul* -- and you're *proud* of it." Willow realized her nails were digging into the thin tablecloth, and carefully disengaged her hands from the table, setting them in her lap. "It's such a powerful feeling. It's like a drug. You want more. . . ." Her voice hitched, and she looked down at her plate, tears in her eyes.  
  
"Willow --"  
  
"Listen to me!" Willow snapped. Buffy stared. Quietly, Willow continued. "Then you realize what you did. You realize just how *evil* you are. And it hurts --" She choked back a sob. "It hurts so much, Buffy." She wiped her eyes with her napkin. "I'm never going to forget what I've done. Never."  
  
Buffy reached out and took Willow's hand, squeezed it. "But, Will --"  
  
"I know what you're going to say. 'What does this have to do with Spike?' Just hear me out. How old is he?"   
  
Buffy shrugged, pulling her hand back. "I don't remember off the top of my head. A hundred and thirty, or so."  
  
Willow folded her napkin and dropped it onto her plate. "I lost myself for just a few days, Buffy." Her voice was low. "Think of what he did in so many years. Think of what it's like to -- to *realize* -- after all those terrible things -- just *think.*"  
  
Buffy's lips formed a hard, thin line. Her eyes were cold. "He hurt me, Willow, and I can't forgive him for that. I won't. I trusted him, and he tried to *rape* me, and I can't --" Buffy stopped. "Wait -- Will -- did you know?"  
  
Willow nodded painfully. "Xander told me a few days ago. I -- I'm sorry, Buffy."  
  
A look of disgust lit her face. "So you see why I shouldn't help him."   
  
Willow looked up at Buffy, compassion in her eyes. "It was terrible of him. We both know that. But -- you hurt him, too."   
  
Buffy glared at Willow. "He didn't have a soul then, you know. If it wasn't for the chip he would've drank Scooby Delight a hundred times over. There wasn't much to hurt."   
  
"Then why did you have anything to do with him in the first place?" Willow asked, an edge to her voice.  
  
Buffy's cheeks went pink. "I told you I was stupid then. I came back from the dead, remember? I wasn't exactly thinking straight," she said stubbornly.   
  
"Look. The fact is, you led him on, you used him. You were doing it because you were desperate, but he saw it as -- as -- I don't know exactly," Willow finished lamely. Hurriedly she added, "He did feel for you, you know he did."  
  
"He also tried to kill us all *numerous* times," Buffy reminded her. "That kind of thing, it's just not good for cultivating friendships."  
  
"You think he doesn't remember all that now?" Willow asked. A waiter approached them and asked if they would like take-out boxes. Willow nodded impatiently, then continued as soon as the man left. "You have to give him a second chance, Buffy."  
  
"*No.*"   
  
"You have to! That's -- that's what makes us human, that we can forgive things. If we don't have that, Buffy -- if we don't have that --" Willow convulsively grabbed her napkin and began twisting it. In a whisper she said, "You've seen what happens when we can't forgive."  
  
Buffy stared at her, indecision on her face. She seemed to be torn between anger and pity. At last she replied, "Since when have you become an advocate for vampire rights?" Angrily she stabbed at a piece of sweet and sour pork. "Willow, you still haven't told me why he deserves a second chance."  
  
The waiter brought them boxes and Willow hurriedly shoved the remains of her food into one, looking up at the clock on the wall. She was going to be late for her next class. She stood and grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "Because," she said, calming herself, "you gave *me* one."  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Here endeth the chapter.  
  
Suggestions, criticisms, and comments will be gladly accepted. Make an author's day, give feedback. :) Chapter 2 will be along shortly. 


	2. Forgiveness

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Feedback: Criticisms, suggestions, and praise are gladly welcomed.  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;" allusions to "Fool for Love"  
  
Summary: Buffy reluctantly offers Spike forgiveness, but that act opens up a whole new can of worms.  
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.   
  
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He had finally passed out hours before. Now he awoke with a start, hearing sounds: quiet footsteps, the turning of a doorknob. He froze, then slowly got to his feet. A light flickered on across the room, and he pressed himself to the wall, hissing faintly among the shadows.  
  
A young woman stepped forward into the light, and he slumped against the wall in relief, his head pounding. "Oh, it's you," he said softly. "Not supposed to be here but you are. Hello again."  
  
"Hello, Spike," Buffy said warily. She stepped towards him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Hungrily he watched her. She was so graceful, so beautiful, so . . . small. The memories and voices faded a little with only a glance at her worried face. He thought, for a moment, of how good it would be to touch her skin again. Then he scowled, angry at himself for even thinking he deserved to touch her.  
  
"Buffy," he said huskily, trying to work his face into a smile for her. "Sweet girl, you are, come to visit me here in the dark. . . ." Despairingly, he gazed at her. "It's nice here, with it all gone black. Have you come to stay with me?" He lost the thread and looked at her, bewildered. The brief respite caused by her appearance ended then; violent images exploded within his mind and he let out a cry, jamming the heels of his hands against his eyes.  
  
She hurried to him and gently pulled his hands from his face. Uneasily he opened his eyes and gazed at her. The sight of her calmed him again and he breathed deeply, realizing that her tiny hands still cradled his. She gave his hands a squeeze, then frowned.  
  
"There's glass in your hand," she said matter-of-factly. "And there's --" She searched his face and he shrank further into the shadows, vaguely remembering the wound on his head. "Spike, come out here in the light. Let me look at you."  
  
He pulled his hands away from her. "No. Don't want you to see me." He thought for a moment, said, "Been punishing the monster, I have."  
  
"Let me look at you," she repeated firmly.  
  
He shook his head, wincing at the fresh pain. "Can't, luv. The head hurts -- I've done something to it, broke it, maybe. Can you do that?" he asked curiously, looking to her for the answer. "Light hurts the head, I hurt it to get them out --" he tapped his head "--won't leave me alone, you see. I did bad things to them so they won't let me be. Bad things. Terrible things, luv, Buffy. . . ." He broke off with a grimace.  
  
He slid down the wall to end up sitting against it. He rested his head against it and closed his eyes wearily, slipping out of the shadows and into the faint light.  
  
"Oh my God, Spike, what did -- how did you --"  
  
He opened his eyes with effort. "What is it, luv, looking to leave me again? Leave the man to fight the -- fight the things locked in his head. . . ." His voice trailed off and Buffy shook her head.  
  
"You have blood all over your face." She knelt at his side, touching his face with soft, sure fingers. A sad little smile appeared on his face as she gently stroked his skin. "Here, under your eyes -- on your forehead -- Spike, it's even in your hair. " Worry was clear in her eyes and voice, confusing him.  
  
"Well, told you I broke it. Want them to go away, won't leave me alone." He was quiet, reflective, as she removed her hand from his face. "Voices in my head, Buffy, they hurt. Won't be quiet, always screaming. I made them, you know. All the things I did."  
  
"Spike. . . ." She settled back on her haunches, watching him.   
  
"You need to go, luv. William's a bad man. A thing, if you will. He's very dangerous." His voice was flat. "But you -- you. . . ." His heart swelled with passion as he looked at her, taking in her widened eyes, her soft hair, her lips. His voice rose with emotion as he reached out to touch her face, shaking. "You're so fair. Delicate. A rose . . . glowing, so -- so lovely . . . growing on the corpses of a million rotting *monsters.*" He spat bitterly to the side, giving a short, sharp laugh. "That's you, pet. Beauty . . . with the beast. It's right of you to hate me."  
  
She ignored his attempts at poetry and said softly, "I don't hate you."  
  
Anger flashed within him. Jerkily he got to his feet and looked down at her, his face twisting. "Don't lie to me! Don't you *ever* lie to me!" he shouted, stabbing his finger at her. She looked horrified. "I know what you think! William's gone mad, hasn't got a clue what's going on, stuck with his voices and his monsters in the dark! Well, goddammit, Buffy, I've news for you -- even madmen aren't stupid!" His voice shook with rage. "I know I'm evil. I know I don't deserve anything good, ever. But I wish you wouldn't pretend I did." He faltered. "Unless . . . unless I do. . . ." Suddenly confusion overwhelmed him and he blinked, wavering on his feet. He realized he was crying.  
  
She stood, grabbed his shoulders, held him up. Her grip was firm, her face set. "I wasn't lying, Spike. I don't hate you. Get that through your thick head, all right? I came here to tell you something."  
  
"I already know," he said, sniffing, not meeting her eyes. "I know you have to punish me. Caning did it once. I was stupid, I was slow. I tried so hard. They were angry with me. 'Stupid boy!'" he shouted suddenly. Buffy looked startled. He continued. "So slow. But caning doesn't work, dodge the stick, pretend it hurts. You cheated him. So no more cheating, luv. Killing's what you've got to do."  
  
She drew back in horror, releasing him. "What the hell?"  
  
"I have to pay, I must be punished," he said patiently, but his voice trembled. He sank back to his knees. "I'm slow and I can't figure it, Buffy, and you have to punish me -- punish me, please --"  
  
"No, no -- *listen* to me, I -- stop!"  
  
He had thrown his hands up over his head and was rocking silently back and forth, his lips moving, his head pounding. He felt her hand grab his forearm, pull it away from his head. Blearily he looked up at her. Her face was white, her eyes bright with tears. She gritted her teeth and spoke.  
  
"I want to give you a second chance."  
  
Even before she finished the sentence he was staring in terror, shaking his head frantically and scrabbling away from her along the wall. "No, no, nonononono, Buffy, can't do it, won't take it, can't, can't." His words were quick, jumbled, thick. "Nonono --" He had backed into a corner, now, and was sitting there shaking, his head in his hands.  
  
He heard her quick steps hurrying closer, felt her hand on his tousled hair, smoothing it. He cringed and tried to pull away, but her touch followed him. Her voice was gentle. "Spike, you have to stop this. You have to let it go."  
  
Tears flooded his cheeks, wetting his hands. He tried jerkily to shake his head. "Can't. Hurt you, hurt you bad."  
  
She was silent for a moment. "Yeah. You did." He pulled his hands from his face and raised his head, gazing up at her. She sat down on the floor, crossing her legs and leaning forward. She swallowed. "And I hurt you."  
  
His eyes widened. "No. Never you, pet. I'm the one who hurts people." The mists within his mind cleared for a moment and he confessed wearily, "I'm a bloody vampire, remember? Not a man. Just a thing. Can't hurt a *thing.*" His voice was filled with defeat, with loathing.  
  
She took one of his lowered hands into hers. He tried to tug it away -- surely his filthiness would sully her if he let her touch him -- but she held on tightly. "Spike," she breathed. "You're not a *thing.* And I hurt you, okay? I did. I hurt you, and you hurt me. And I'm saying, if you'll forgive me, then I'll forgive you. I can't forget." Her eyes glittered. "But I can forgive. And I can help."  
  
"Forgave you a million times over," he mumbled. "Didn't you know that?" The rest of her message sunk in, and he was afraid again, whispering, "You can't forgive me."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Spike, I'm giving you a second chance here. Don't be stupid." She squeezed his hand, and he shuddered.  
  
"How can you touch me?" he mumbled in amazement. "Everything I've done -- How?"  
  
Hesitantly she reached out, touched his face. He flinched, but her fingers were warm. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, but her voice was joking, not angry. "I'm the Slayer, remember? I've staked fouler things than you in my sleep." She was suddenly serious again. "Let me forgive you. Please."  
  
"*No.*" His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. "Can't let you do it. 'S wrong. It'd make you -- make you like me. Dirty."   
  
She glared at him. "Quit making this harder than it already is. God, if I'd known you were going to be so difficult --" She broke off, watching him nod frantically. She looked puzzled, raising her eyebrows and frowning.  
  
"Yes, yes, that's right, must go," he said hopefully. She had to go. Why didn't she see that? She scared him with her talk of forgiveness, and now he wanted to retreat back to his shadows in safety, where he could drown in guilt and not have to think about anything. "I'm difficult, don't deserve anything. Hopeless really. Always have been. Better go -- go -- leave --"  
  
Her nostrils flared. "Dammit! Stop it! I'm *trying* to help you!" She took a deep breath, releasing his hand. "And you wonder why I won't stay with you! I *told* you it was worse when I'm here, and I was right. Come on. Just let me forgive you, and we can both move on." Her voice was softer, wheedling. "It would make me happy."   
  
He closed his eyes, defeated. He would die to make her happy, and they both knew it. Weakly, he nodded once.   
  
"Look at me." He did. Her face was very close now, mere inches away. Her breath on his cheeks was warm, sweet-smelling; her eyes were clear. "I forgive you."  
  
Painfully, he said, "All right." He swallowed, turned his face from hers, struggled not to cry. Voices howled within his mind, raging at Buffy's words and his acceptance of them. He winced. "Stop it. Stop shouting. Leave me alone, stop it, stop hurting me --" He was gasping, shaking. He stifled a cry, covering his face with his hands and jerking his head from side to side.  
  
Instantly she wrapped her arms around him, pulled him to her. "Shh, shh, it's all right, you'll be okay." Instinctively he hugged her back, embracing her tightly and burying his face in the fabric covering her small shoulder.   
  
"Oh, God, Buffy, help me," he begged, his voice muffled. "I'm -- scared -- afraid -- and it's so hard . . . the voices shout, and I don't know what to tell them --"  
  
She turned her head so her lips tickled his cheek as she spoke. "Tell them to bugger off." She laughed a little, and the sound was music, light and golden.  
  
He tried to smile. His face seemed to have forgotten the motions. Instead he concentrated on the scent of her skin, her hair. The voices in his head faded a little. Shyly he confessed, "You can make them go away."   
  
Her hands -- such small, delicate hands -- were on his back, on the bare skin of his neck. Her fingers danced upon his skin comfortingly. "Yeah, I'd be a pretty crappy soldier of light if I couldn't banish evil things once in a while."   
  
He realized that her shoulder was bathed in his tears. He raised his head a little, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Ashamed, he confided, "I -- I've gotten your shirt all wet. Been -- crying." He ducked his head, unable to face her.  
  
She looked down at her shirt, appearing a little amused. "I'm just glad you didn't bleed all over it. Blood's hell in the laundry, but tears? Piece of cake." Her voice softened. "We need to clean you up, though. You look pretty bad."   
  
He nodded a little. "Right, then. Right." He sighed, deeply, cherishing her arms around him, his hands on her back. "I get so confused, you know. Muddled." His tone was contemplative. "Didn't know -- didn't guess it'd be anything like this. So hard. But you --" His voice was hushed, now, filled with pride. "Your voice. I hear you and it -- makes me happy. Even though -- even though I hurt you, I still hear you, and *they* hear you, and they leave me alone for a little while. You're like -- like -- starlight, maybe, or music, or rain when you're warm inside by the fire with your -- poetry. All the good things. You make me . . . better."  
  
"Oh, God, Spike." Now she was the one crying, her face on *his* shoulder, her hot tears soaking *his* shirt. Hesitantly he reached up, stroked her hair, wanting to comfort her. Regret filled him, although he didn't understand why she was upset.  
  
She quieted, raised her head. "I *will* help you. You don't have to be here, alone, anymore. I'll find you somewhere to stay, someplace that *isn't* the Hellmouth." She chuckled a little. "Just don't -- don't tell me things like that. You know, about -- starlight. It . . . it scares me."   
  
He nodded fervently. "Sorry, luv. You just -- you do that to me. Sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes I'm just *him,* and he makes me talk."  
  
"Him who?" she asked curiously.  
  
"Him. Me. Before I -- changed." His accent mellowed; his voice rose, becoming unsure. "And I -- I -- you're so worthy. And words just come to me and maybe they're not always right, but I feel them, and they feel right, in-inside." He fell quiet. "The others all laughed. They smudged the ink and laughed, and she didn't -- didn't want me, and I was crcrying. . . ."   
  
"William."  
  
"Sometimes." He was suddenly tired; he closed his eyes, hid his face in her shoulder again. "Sometimes I can't tell, and I just let them talk until they don't hurt anymore. But everything's all mixed up inside my head. They talk . . . so loud."  
  
"Oh, Spike. . . ." She turned her head and gently pressed her lips to his cheek. "Oh, Spike."  
  
He went very still. Her lips were warm, so warm, and he was so cold. She pulled away and rested her chin on his shoulder, tightening her embrace -- not pushing him away, not shouting at him. He blinked back tears of relief, of thanks.  
  
It was more than enough.  
  
*****  
  
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	3. Working the Puzzle

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;"   
also spoilers for "Fool for Love"  
  
Summary: Buffy begins the task of putting Spike's pieces back together, and finds it's an altogether Sisyphean one.   
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.   
  
Author's Note: Sorry it's taken so long to get the next chapter up -- computer   
troubles, and all that jazz....  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her, checking her watch and frowning. Three hours late -- she wondered what she was going to tell Dawn.  
  
"Buffy? That you?" Dawn's voice called from the kitchen. Willow poked her head around the corner and smiled. "Yeah, it's her, Dawn." Willow stepped out to meet her and said in a low voice, "Did you do that -- that thing I talked to you about?"  
  
Buffy nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. He's pretty cra--" She stopped, seeing Dawn step out, wearing oven mitts on her hands. "Uh, hey, Dawn. How's it going?"  
  
Dawn put her hands on her hips and pretended to pout. "Buffyyyyy," she whined. She broke into a smile. "Hey. What's up? It's still daylight --" she gestured to the open front windows -- "can't have been doing much with the, you know, slayage."  
  
"Oh! Um. I had to stay after, at the school," Buffy said, not meeting Dawn's eyes. Willow took that moment to quietly slip out of the room and head upstairs.  
  
"Well, I hope they're paying you overtime," Dawn muttered. "I made some frozen pizza again, but I'm starting to get sick of it --"  
  
Buffy took a deep breath. No more hiding things, she told herself firmly. "Wait. Dawn, I wasn't doing overtime. I was with Spike."  
  
Dawn threw her oven-mittened hands into the air, a look of disgust crossing her face. "*What?* After what he did? Buffy, have you lost your mind?"  
  
Buffy sighed. "No, I don't think I have. But Spike has, that's for damn sure."   
  
"And you care . . . why?"  
  
"Dawnie, listen to me. I'm going to spell this out in terms you can understand." Dawn rolled her eyes and pulled off her oven mitts, exasperated. "Spike got his soul back."  
  
Dawn's jaw dropped. "He -- what?"  
  
"He got it back and now he's kinda crazy and I'm trying to help him. Remember a few weeks ago when you went all -- poseable? Remember how weird he was? He wasn't joking around. He's seriously screwed up," Buffy explained.   
  
Dawn scratched her head. "But how did he get it in the first place? And why's he all weird? I mean, not to say he wasn't weird before." She scowled.  
  
"He won't tell me exactly how he got it, but I think he had to do some trials for it. He had burns . . . scars. I don't think it was pretty." Buffy shook her head. "He's crazy because he's guilty. You know, being a vamp for a century or so, you're bound to do some evil things. And he was pretty evil."   
  
"Yeah he was. Is." Dawn ground her teeth, still scowling. "I can't believe you're helping him. After what he did, Buffy. Or did you forget?"  
  
She was stung. She strode to her sister, clenched and unclenched her fists in anger. "I'll never forget. And that's exactly what I told him. Look, I don't have to tell you these things. I thought that's what you said, that I needed to tell people what was going on not when *I* felt like it, but when it needed to be done." She turned her head. "Anyway, he's worst with the crazy and all when he remembers . . . about me." She shrugged. "Make of it what you will, Dawn. But I'm helping him. Not *hooking up* with him, not . . . boinking . . . him -- but I'm helping him."  
  
Dawn looked abashed. She stared at the ground for a few minutes as Buffy went into the kitchen and checked on the pizza in the oven. Sighing, she followed Buffy into the kitchen. Buffy looked mildly at her, wondering what was coming.  
  
"I -- um, I'm sorry, Buffy. I still don't think helping him's a good idea --" Dawn looked up into Buffy's face, and smiled, tears in her eyes. "But I'm glad you told me."  
  
"No more secrets," Buffy said, squeezing Dawn's shoulder. "I think we all had enough of that last year. Now, are you ready for some delicious frozen pizza?" Dawn managed a weak smile, and Buffy hollered in the direction of the stairs. "Willow, pizza's ready!" As Willow came down the stairs, Buffy took her sister's hand, then squeezed. Dawn squeezed back.  
  
In a whisper, so Willow couldn't hear, Dawn said playfully, "So. Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane. I like."  
  
*****  
  
It was looking like a good night for Spike. He sat at the kitchen table, animated, chatting with her lucidly as he nursed a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. His clothes -- black t-shirt, black jacket, black jeans -- were clean, and his eyes were clear. He hadn't once slipped into poetry or old memories, and was discussing calmly the latest demon to attack Sunnydale.   
  
"So like I was saying, bloody thing's got to be hungry by now. Don't think it's eaten in centuries," he said, sipping his cocoa.   
  
Buffy nodded, pleased at his progress. This was only his fourth night of coming over to the house before she went on patrol, and already he was starting to sound quite sane most of the time. Dawn was still uncomfortable with him coming, so Buffy had told her she could revoke his invitation every night after he left. That had cheered Dawn up slightly and now she walked through the kitchen during their meetings, a smug smile on her face. She was currently rummaging under the sink, looking for props for a Halloween costume.   
  
"Buffy, do we have any weapons or anything? I mean, besides your cool slayer ones? I don't want to freak out the little neighborhood kids," Dawn said, closing the cupboard doors.   
  
"Now, this party's going to be safe, is it?" Spike asked, turning around and fixing Dawn with a piercing stare. "No frat boys, no orgies. . . ." He waggled a finger at her.  
  
Dawn laughed uneasily, looking to Buffy for help. She seemed to be saying, "I thought he was crazy?" She looked at Spike. "Uh, no, not that I know of." Spike nodded, seeming pleased with himself. Dawn quickly said, "Uh, I'll check upstairs -- maybe in the closet --" She turned and headed for the stairs.   
  
Spike stared morosely into his cocoa. "Still doesn't trust me."  
  
"No, not really," Buffy agreed cheerfully. "But she didn't threaten to set you on fire again, now did she?"  
  
He perked up slightly. "No. That's something." He paused, looking thoughtful. "The voices are very quiet here. I feel like me again. Like they aren't in charge of me."  
  
"That's good," she said encouragingly. "I told you that Hellmouth was screwing you up, but did you listen? Noooo."   
  
He nodded, downed his hot chocolate. He held out his empty mug, a smile -- an easy, natural smile -- creasing his face. "Got any more?"  
  
Buffy grinned. "Yeah. You know, Spike -- this is getting *easier.*" She took his mug and went to the cupboard, pulling out the cocoa mix.   
  
"What is?" he asked curiously.  
  
"Me. Talking to you. It's almost like -- old times, only, old times weren't really like this." She stopped, suddenly afraid she had said too much. "Um, how many scoops do you want?"  
  
"As many as'll fit."  
  
There was a sound of clattering footsteps coming down the stairs -- Dawn. Dawn peered into the kitchen, clutching something behind her back. "Um, Buffy?"  
  
"What is it, Dawn?"  
  
"I found this. Upstairs, in the closet." She stepped into the doorway and drew out her prize, holding it at arm's length in front of her and wrinkling her nose at the musty, crumpled object. "I figured you guys might want it."  
  
It was Spike's duster.  
  
Buffy stared at it. The last time he'd worn that duster he'd tried to -- She swallowed, closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them she saw Spike was staring at the duster, a look of intense concentration upon his face.  
  
"Spike?" Buffy asked carefully. "It's your duster. Do you want it?"  
  
He looked down at the table, giving a little shiver. "'S not mine." He was grimacing.  
  
Buffy sighed and reached out, took the duster in one hand. "Thanks, Dawn." Dawn looked at Spike's face, then quickly exited the room. Buffy sat down, holding the duster. "Spike, it *is* yours. Remember? You've been wearing it for the past twenty years, for God's sake."  
  
But he was shaking his head, refusing to look at it. Buffy bit her lip, then laid it down absently on the table. A bit of a leather sleeve touched Spike's hand.   
  
The effect was astonishing. He let out a howl and leapt to his feet, shoving himself away from the table and knocking over his chair. He backed into the counter behind him, his face twisting, his chest heaving. "Get it away!" he moaned.  
  
Buffy was shocked. "What's wrong?"  
  
He was trembling, trying to organize his thoughts. "It -- blood. Soaked in blood. Won't come out." He hid his face from her. "Take it away. I killed her. . . . Snapped her neck. Her eyes -- And she -- like you -- I killed her." He slid down to a sitting position on the linoleum. "I don't want it anymore. I don't want it. Take it away." He was petulant now, child-like, his eyes filling with tears. "I killed her."  
  
"Buffy?" Willow's concerned voice asked. Buffy looked up to see Willow in the doorway, looking worried. "I heard a shout, and -- oh." She saw Spike cowering against the wall and looked at Buffy. "Bad night, huh?"  
  
Buffy nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show. "It was going so well, too. He sounded like the old Spike again. I mean, not the evil 'I'm gonna kill you' Spike, but the not-so-evil 'I guess I'll help you out' Spike." Willow nodded supportively.  
  
"Well, um, it's kinda getting late --"  
  
"Yeah, I know. Slaying and all that jazz." She sighed, looking at Spike. He was now rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed, his mouth moving. "Look, I'll take him back to the -- the basement." She frowned. "Damn, we really need to find him a place to stay." She sighed. "Tell Dawn I'm out patrolling. And tell her she can do her thing, you know, with the invitation. It makes her feel better."   
  
"Okay." Willow was watching Spike, seemingly fascinated with him.  
  
"Willow? You gonna help me out, or you gonna stare at the crazy vampire all night long?"  
  
"Oh! Yeah!" Willow, looking embarrassed, turned to leave. Before she did, she quickly said, "Buffy. . . . I'm proud of you. This -- helping him -- I think it's something Tara would have done." She smiled wistfully, then bowed her head and left.  
  
Buffy blinked back tears. She wasn't sure if Willow knew that Tara was the only one she had really confided in about Spike. But as she went to Spike, helped him to his feet, and put her arm around him, she thought maybe Willow knew what she was talking about.  
  
*****  
  
The night air on his face was fresh, clean. It snapped him back to himself. He realized he was walking along the   
sidewalk, a small, impossibly strong arm around his waist, keeping him moving. He blinked, saw Buffy's golden hair glinting at his side in the pale moonlight.   
  
Disgust filled him. He'd done it again, showed his stupidity, his weakness. He managed a short, angry laugh, and Buffy looked up at him, startled. "Spike?"  
  
"Bloody hell. S'pose I fell all to pieces again, didn't I." It wasn't a question.  
  
She pulled a little closer to him, though he couldn't be sure if it was on purpose, or if because it was cold. It was uncharacteristically chilly, quite unlike the usual balmy nights they were used to. Without thinking he put his arm around her shoulders, drew her nearer to him. She flinched a little, but didn't pull away.  
  
"Yeah, you kinda did." Her voice was soft. "You were doing really well, though. Lucid . . . like your old self . . . you were doing good."   
  
He snorted. "Like my old self. Wish I knew what that was." He looked around, saw they were a few blocks away from the school. The houses on either side of them were dark; he supposed it must be late.  
  
Buffy didn't say anything, and he didn't press her. The voices were beginning their old clamor again, and he concentrated on keeping them at bay. "Stay away," he muttered. "Don't want to listen to you now, had enough of your yammering for one night. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up."  
  
"Shh." She gently squeezed his side and he looked at her, surprised into silence. "You're stronger than they are."  
  
"Oh. Right. Right; strong. Gonna make you shut up, I am. Now. Right now." He was walking more quickly, picking up the pace, gritting his teeth. Buffy was nearly trotting alongside him to keep up.  
  
Buffy pulled back on his shirt, looking up at him with an annoyed expression. "Hey. Whoa, cowboy. If you haven't noticed, I have tiny little legs. Slow down."  
  
He stopped, turned his head, looked at her. Her arm still encircled his waist; his was still around her shoulders. She was still shivering, looking pale and wan beneath the moonlight. He swallowed, concerned. "Are you cold?"  
  
She shook her head, rolling her eyes a little. "No, Spike, I'm just shivering here for my own amusement. Yes, I'm cold. I didn't realize it was gonna be this chilly, that's all. I mean, this *is* California. . . ." She shivered again. "Cold front must've blown in or something."  
  
Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face her. He raised his other arm, touched her shoulder. He smiled a little. "You can have my jacket if you like, pet."   
  
She stared up at him; a hint of a smile played about her lips. The scent of her hair -- delicate, flowery -- wafted up to him. He breathed deeply of it -- and suddenly the most ferocious voice yet roared within his head.   
  
He ripped his arms away from her and stumbled backwards, colliding with a street lamp and falling clumsily down. His head throbbed with pain and he cried out, shuddering with fear, squeezing his eyes closed.  
  
Buffy ran to him, her eyes wide. "Spike! What is it --"  
  
He flipped over onto his side, curling up. The creature in his mind snarled and spit, snapping its jaws. Its voice was harsh and cruel, and it filled him with terror. "God, get it out, get it out of my head!" he begged her, tears flooding his cheeks. He reached out in desperation, grabbed at her feet. "Make it stop -- please --"  
  
The creature howled again, and he clapped his hands to the sides of his head, panting, quaking. He shook his head back and forth, frantically crying, "No, no, leave me alone, *no*!"   
  
Her hands. She was touching him, trying to get him on his feet. "Spike, people are gonna hear --"  
  
The beast was laughing. Its booming laugh was like hammers dancing in his head, smashing everything within to bits.   
  
"Get it out!"  
  
"C'mon --" She was tugging at him, trying to pry his hands from his ears.   
  
"Can't move -- I can't -- don't you think I'm *trying* --"   
  
"Spike, we're going whether you like it or not!" He was vaguely aware that she was hoisting him up, dragging him along. He clung to her, and wept, lost again.  
  
*****  
  
Buffy banged on the front door. "Dawn? Willow? Open up," she yelled. A light flickered on in one of the upstairs bedrooms and Buffy sighed, bracing the quiescent Spike against her. He had finally quieted a few blocks from the house, but he refused to stand alone -- she had tried letting go of him and he had tumbled to the ground. Now she looked at him, taking in the tousled hair, the half-closed eyes, the parted lips of the white face resting on her shoulder.   
  
"Spike. Can you hear me?"  
  
"Weak," he breathed. "Weak." His eyes fell shut and she groaned, kicking half-heartedly at the door as it swung open, revealing an annoyed-looking Dawn in pajamas.  
  
"C'mon, Dawn, help me get him in. He's kinda -- out of it."   
  
Dawn blanched. "Buffy, you've already had your little therapy session today. Can't he go sleep in his basement?" She rubbed her eyes.  
  
"No. Come on, Spike, help me out here." She hauled him over the threshold and to the couch, where she pushed him onto it a little more harshly than she meant to. He lay there, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes.  
  
"Buffy!" Dawn slammed the front door and turned around, her hair sticking out at odd angles. She looked pissed. "He's not *staying* here, is he?"  
  
"Well, if you want to drag him back down to the Hellmouth, be my guest, Dawn," Buffy said sharply, leaving Spike's side and rummaging in the front closet for a jacket, still feeling chilled. She pulled out her leather jacket and shrugged into it, looking at Dawn. "But I have work to do, and I don't really want to carry him all the way down there. You can see he's --"  
  
"Gone mad," Spike said helpfully. Sweat shone on his forehead. "They always t-told me I was foolish and they were r-right. My st-stuttering always -- Mother so disappointed, her b-boy so useless." Tears sparkled on his cheeks. "N-never a real m-m-man. I'm sorry," he whispered. "Don't be angry, please, I tried v-very hard." He let out a cry and hid his face in the blanket on the back of the couch.  
  
Buffy looked at Dawn, who was standing at the end of the couch with wide eyes. "Can you imagine me trying to cart him back to that basement with him like *that*?"   
  
"I -- wow, Buffy, you weren't kidding," Dawn said, sounding almost impressed.  
  
Buffy rubbed her forehead. "Dawn, you are such a --" She refrained from finishing the sentence and instead yawned. "I haven't dusted anything tonight. I have to go back out, okay?"  
  
"Where do we put him?" Dawn said, her awe wearing off. She now sounded sulky. "We're not just gonna leave him here with things -- open. He could just come up the stairs and --"  
  
"Fine! We'll lock him in the basement, all right?" To herself she murmured, "No windows, he'll be fine." She looked up at Dawn and forced a smile to her face. "Well, open the door for me." As Dawn went to open the basement door Buffy reached down and again hefted Spike to his feet. He clutched at her, fear in his eyes.  
  
"Don't let go," he whispered. "I'll be lost."   
  
"We're going to take you downstairs, all right, Spike? You can get some sleep. You won't be lost." As she spoke she pulled him forward and he reluctantly followed her to where Dawn stood by the open basement door.   
  
"Um, go on down, Spike," Dawn offered.  
  
"Go on up to bed, Dawn. I'll take care of him," Buffy said wearily. Dawn slipped past her and Buffy began helping Spike down the steep steps. At last they reached the bottom and Buffy looked around, spotting a rickety cot in the corner. She helped him to it and laid him down.  
  
"It's like a puzzle in my head," he said, his voice full of wonder as she picked up a blanket and spread it over him. "Little pieces -- jigsaw -- no sense." He tapped his forehead, winking at her and stretching his face into a grin. "No sense, luv. Just . . . little . . . pieces."  
  
"Um, yeah, Spike." She stood over him, looking down at him. Her face was filled with pity. She reached out, as if to stroke his face, then jerked her hand back, suddenly afraid. He didn't notice; he had closed his eyes. She swallowed, confused by herself. She turned and jogged back up the stairs, shut off the light, and locked the door. She checked it three times before she was satisfied.  
  
***** 


	4. Minor Setback

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Feedback: Criticism, praise, and suggestions will be happily taken at gjohnson@willamette.edu  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless";   
also, allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"  
  
Summary: Buffy discovers that the puzzle Spike has become   
is definitely not one of those ages two-to-four deals.   
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Xander, etc., are not   
mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Dawn, get your butt down here!" Buffy yelled up the stairs. "Xander's gonna be here any minute!"  
  
"Jeez, I'm coming," Dawn said crossly, appearing at the top of the stairs. "Just chill *out.*"   
  
"As long as you're ready," Buffy muttered. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, when there arose a pounding from the next room, followed by muffled shouts. She sighed and followed the source of the noise, coming to the basement door.  
  
"Where am I?" Spike's voice roared. "Bleedin' hell, what's going on?" The door shook as he pounded on it.  
  
"Spike!" He quieted. "Spike, you're going to stay in there until I come home, all right? It's daylight, and you're not going anywhere anyway."  
  
"But I'm hungry." He sounded pouty, and she tried not to smile.   
  
"Um -- we got bagels --"  
  
"*Other* kind of hungry."  
  
"You know, I'm fresh out of pig's blood, Spike," Buffy said, exasperated. "Somehow I must have forgotten to put it on the grocery list. You'll survive for one day. Calm down."  
  
"Can't I at least come out of here? I -- I don't like it, down here."  
  
She sighed, unlocked the door. "Come on out, Spike."  
  
He stepped warily into the kitchen, his eyes darting back and forth. His gaze fell upon the open windows and he scowled, as Buffy walked to the window and jerked the curtain closed, blocking the sunlight. He began to walk around, muttering under his breath, his hands twitching. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes looked puffy.  
  
"There, you happy?" she asked.  
  
A voice behind her made her whirl. "No, can't really say I am."  
  
Xander stood there, frowning deeply, his eyes narrowed. Dawn stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Um -- Buffy -- Xander's here."  
  
Buffy gave her a withering "Duh" look, then turned to Xander. "Hey, Xander. Guess you're ready to go, then," she said, sounding a lot more cheerful than she felt.  
  
"Why the hell is he in your *house*?" Xander asked, anger in his voice. "Did he -- did he stay the night? Are you crazy?" He shot a glare at Spike, who was standing with his hands on the counter and his eyes closed, talking to himself.  
  
"As if." She took a deep breath. She knew she was going to have to tell Xander sooner or later about Spike; it looked like it was going to be sooner. "I've been -- helping him. Come on, we're gonna be late."  
  
"You're just gonna leave him here?" Xander asked incredulously as Buffy brushed past him and headed for the front door. "Leave him to do his evil, Spikey things?"  
  
"What's he gonna do, try and eat the couch?" she retorted, highly annoyed. "It's daylight, he's not going anywhere. We have places to go, people to see, come on, get moving."   
  
"Buffy --"  
"We can talk on the way, Xander," Buffy said harshly, and he fell silent. Dawn, Buffy and Xander walked out the front door, and behind them Spike wandered aimlessly through the living room, avoiding the sunlight pouring through the door. He looked up at her, eyes haunted; Buffy closed the door.  
  
*****  
  
She half-heartedly poked a pencil into the pencil sharpener, listening to the whir of the machine and thinking back to the turbulent ride to the school. Xander had been so incredibly pissed that it was nearly impossible to talk to him, and it was only when they pulled up to the school that she finally convinced him Spike was down for the count (for now) and not dangerous. Dawn, meanwhile, had declared them both idiots and had run to her first class almost in tears. The day had not begun well at all. Now, four hours later, she still couldn't get the fight out of her head.  
  
Buffy put her head down on her desk, sighing mightily. Xander, in all his blustering anger, had brought up a point that she couldn't forget, and it was weighing heavily on her mind.  
  
"Fine. You're helping him. Helping him *do what?* Get him back to being his evil self? Make him all tame like Angel? Do you even *know?*" Xander had snapped.  
  
And she *didn't* know.  
  
"What do I do?" she murmured. She knew she didn't want the old "Big Bad" Spike back. She'd had enough of that Spike's constant death threats. But she didn't want last year's Spike back, either, not his hurt eyes, his hushed voice, his kisses. And she didn't want the ugly bruises she'd given him, and she didn't want the memory of that night in the bathroom. She closed her eyes. She hadn't been lying when she told him she would never forget that night. It was etched into her memory, and she was helpless to remove it. It, and so many other terrible things. . . . Without realizing it, she slipped into sleep.  
  
"Ms. Summers?"  
  
She jerked upwards, looking around wildly for whomever had spoken. Principal Wood stood in her doorway, looking at her with mild curiosity. "Is it naptime? Why wasn't I informed? I know I could use one."  
  
"Oh! Principal Wood, I'm -- I'm very sorry," she stammered. Thinking quickly, she offered, "I -- was up late last night." It was true enough; the only problem was that she was up late *every* night. But Principal Wood didn't know that.  
  
"Mm-hm." He cocked an eyebrow. "Doing. . . ."  
  
Her mind raced. "Paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork." She looked down and shuffled some papers as if to underscore her statement. "Just like this. See?"  
  
"Oh, yes." He regarded her for a moment, then said kindly, "You know, I think we'll be okay today if you'd like to go home a little early. You seem a little -- preoccupied."  
  
She looked up at the clock -- barely lunchtime. "Oh, no, I couldn't -- I'm fine." She stifled another yawn.  
  
"Go on home, Ms. Summers."   
  
Flustered, she said, "Well, I -- I do have company --" Spike's face filled her mind. "I'll stay late tomorrow," she offered, grateful for the chance to go home, but also uneasy about missing work.   
  
"Of course," he said with a small smile. "See you tomorrow." He left, and she stared at her desk, sighing. Despite her words to Xander, she wasn't entirely comfortable about leaving Spike alone in the house. It would be good to check up on him and see what exactly had happened last night -- he had been doing so well.   
  
The bell rang; she gathered her things and prepared to leave. Just as she was locking the door, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Dawn.  
  
"Hey, sis. Wanna run out for a quick bite to eat? Anywhere other than Doublemeat Palace," she added hastily.  
  
"No. . . . I'd better not. We're kinda low on cash right now," Buffy said. "You'd better stick with the school lunch."   
  
Dawn was about to complain when she noticed Buffy's things. "Hey, are you leaving or something?"  
  
"Um, yeah. The principal gave me the rest of the day off."  
  
"Lucky you," said Dawn enviously. "I never get the rest of the day off. So what are you gonna do? Go back home and check on the crazy guy?"  
  
"Pretty much," Buffy admitted. "I know you still don't trust him, but he's different. You saw how he was last night. That was *not* the old Spike we all knew and, uh, tolerated."   
  
"Yeah, now he's new and insane," Dawn grumbled. "Xander was right. He might be crazy, but he's still, you know, evil."  
  
Buffy frowned. "Well, if he is, he's the best evil vampire I know." She considered this. "I think." She thought again. "Never mind."   
  
Dawn was giggling. "I know it's not funny, but somehow, it is." She forced herself to stop smiling. "I still can't believe what you're doing, what with . . . you know. What he did."   
  
Buffy sighed. "Okay, I'm going now, Dawn. I'll see you when you get home, all right?"   
  
"Sure," Dawn said, looking miffed. "I guess. See ya."  
  
Buffy waved goodbye to her sister, and wove a path through the sea of teenagers, wondering how on earth she had gotten herself into this.  
  
*****  
  
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her. "Spike?" She glanced around the living room, looking for him. The house was quiet and dark; the shades were all drawn, save the shade of one small window where a ray of sun peeked out. "Come on out, Spike. It's me."   
  
The plastic bag she was carrying rustled as it brushed against her leg; she had stopped by the butcher's and picked up some blood. She sighed, making her way to the kitchen to stow the bag in the refrigerator. "Spike, I got you something to eat," she called. She closed the refrigerator door and turned to go back into the living room. She heard footsteps. "Spike?"   
  
She stepped into the living room and looked around, shaking her head when she spied him. Spike was standing in a shadowed corner, head bowed. His chest and feet were bare.   
  
She approached him hesitantly. He refused to look at her, staring instead at the floor. She reached out and touched his shoulder.  
  
He cried out and jerked backwards. "Mustn't touch," he commanded angrily. "No touching. None. Get yourself dirty, you will." He took a deep, ragged breath.  
  
She looked up to the ceiling as if to say, "Why me?"  
  
He straightened up suddenly, dropping his hands to his sides. He began walking slowly around the room, speaking in a soft voice that lacked his normal confidence and sharp accent. "Got dirty once. After -- after services. I saw her waiting for the carriage. She looked so lovely," he murmured, his eyes unfocused, a faint smile on his face. "Sun in her hair, and her eyes all sparkling, in her Sunday finest. Her voice like -- bells. I wanted to speak with her -- wanted to hear her sweet, little laugh -- and the carriage came." He stopped, frowned, shook his head. "Dropped her handkerchief, and I ran to fetch it for her -- to be a gentleman. But I was so clumsy. I stumbled, you see, and I fell into the mud before the horses. I broke my spectacles." His voice trailed off; tears filled his eyes. "I broke them. And I was all muddy."  
  
She swallowed, looking at him standing there, misery in his face and every line of his half-naked body. As she watched he raised one hand and wiped his nose on the back of it, like a child. He sniffed, looking lost. Helpless.  
  
"Spike --"   
  
Quietly, as if to himself, he continued, "But now the filth's *inside.*" He reached up with his hands, his fingers scrabbling over his bare chest.  
  
"Shh," she said. "Look, Spike, why don't you go get dressed, and I'll --"  
  
"Do what, pet?" he asked sharply, his eyes gleaming. He giggled, a long, high, unnatural laugh. He jerkily thrust his left hand out at her, pointing at her. "You don't --"  
  
She noticed suddenly that the hand pointing at her was red all along one side, shiny and weeping fluid. "What did you do?"  
  
He examined his hand, surprise evident on his face. "Well. That was stupid, I expect." Understanding dawned on him. "Wondered where you went, is all. Went to open up the curtain, thought I might see you outside, but -- bloody sun. Burned."  
  
She gaped at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "What, you just completely forgot that the sun will *kill* you?" He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. She took his right hand in hers and pulled. "Come on, I've got some bandages upstairs, Spike. For God's sake."  
  
She led him up the stairs and to the bathroom. She let go of his hand at the doorway and knelt, absently looking through the drawers for first aid materials. As she looked, she became aware that Spike was breathing heavily. Confused, she glanced at him and saw that he had checked at the threshold, his hands clutching the doorframe. He stared at her, his eyes wide in horror.  
  
"Oh, God, I -- I -- what did I do?" His voice was small, frightened, and she realized what was wrong. She at once felt numb, frozen; how could she have forgotten what happened the last time they were in this room together? She flinched, staring up at him.  
  
"You were crying," he whispered. "I wouldn't stop. I hurt you, I scared you, and I didn't -- couldn't -- stop --" His face was whiter even than usual; tears spilled onto his cheeks. "Oh, God, I can't -- no --" He let go of the doorjamb and balled his hands into fists, then viciously lashed out at himself, punching himself in the jaw once, twice, three times. He staggered backwards, out into the hall. His legs buckled and on hands and knees he crawled out of her sight.  
  
Tears filled her eyes. She swallowed and took a deep breath, hearing dry, desperate sobs from the hall. "Oh my God," she said faintly. Weakly she got to her feet and stumbled out of the bathroom.   
  
A few feet away, Spike was on his hands and knees, trembling violently. He was retching; the sound tore at her, and she began to cry in silence. Between heaves, he sobbed, "I hurt the girl. I hurt the girl."   
  
She took a few steps forward and let herself fall to her knees beside him. Clumsily she reached out and forced herself to touch the bare skin between his shoulders. She suppressed a shudder and began to awkwardly, gingerly pat him. Her lips refused to form words; instead, she concentrated on the carpet, blurred by her tears, and wished that night would come.  
  
*****  
  
Feedback: does an author good. 


	5. Confessions and Revelations

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Feedback: Criticism, praise, and suggestions will be happily taken at gjohnson@willamette.edu  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless"; also, allusions to "Fool for Love" and "Doomed"  
  
Summary: Buffy is worn out, and Willow takes over the role of vampire therapist, much to her surprise.  
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Xander, etc., are not mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Willow set her bag down on the couch and stretched, yawning, "Buffy? Dawn?" She climbed the stairs, thinking vaguely of taking a nap before dinner, when she saw that Buffy's door was wide open. She wandered to it and peered inside.  
  
Buffy sat quietly on the edge of the bed, her head bowed, her clasped hands sitting in her lap. Behind her, a fully dressed Spike lay on his side on top of the covers, facing the opposite wall. They were silent.  
  
"Buffy?" Willow asked tentatively.  
  
Slowly Buffy raised her head. She blinked. "Huh? Oh. Will. Hey. How were classes today?"  
  
Willow glanced at the rigid, unmoving Spike, then nodded to the door. "You, um, wanna talk?"  
  
Buffy stood quickly, striding to the door. "Yes," she said firmly. She slipped through the door and into the hallway, leaving Willow to close the door on the quiescent Spike. Willow turned to look at her friend.  
  
Buffy was pacing back and forth, hands behind her back. She looked deeply disturbed. "Buffy? Are you okay?" Willow asked, worried.  
  
"No. No, I'm not." Buffy looked surprised at herself. She shook her head, stopped pacing. "God, Willow, what am I supposed to do with him?" She flung an arm out, gesturing towards the closed door. "I -- I don't know if I'll ever be able to *fix* him. I don't even know what a fixed Spike would look like! And something happened today --"  
  
Willow gasped. "He didn't try to -- you know, again --"  
  
"*No!*" Buffy said. "But -- he burned himself, tried to open the window --"  
  
Willow stifled a giggle. "What, he forgot about the sun?"  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes. "That's what I said. Anyway, I took him up to the bathroom, you know, that's where all the first aid stuff is. . . . I wasn't thinking. . . ." She looked at the floor. "And, well, we both kind of . . . freaked out."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"It wasn't fun." She was quiet, reflective. "It was scary as hell, actually. He tried to beat the crap out of himself, for one thing. And there was all that weeping and gnashing of teeth." She smiled weakly. "It took him more than an hour to quiet down."  
  
Willow stared. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Wish I wasn't." She sighed. "I'm tired, Willow. I don't know what to do anymore. I want to help him, because -- because you were right, he *knows* what he's done, and he's sorry -- but I don't know *how* to help him. I just don't." Tears filled her eyes.  
  
Willow felt a rush of guilt. She was the one who had convinced Buffy to help Spike anyway, and yet she hadn't helped Buffy at all. Quickly she stammered, "Well, you know, I can help you out. Talk to him. See what's going on. Maybe it'd be better for him right now to . . . to not see you."   
  
Buffy raised her head. "I think you're right, Will." She frowned. "I'm gonna go clean up the kitchen. Dawn should be home pretty soon and I think we'll have an early dinner tonight. . . ." She walked slowly to the stairs and began to walk down, shaking her head. "Just . . . see what you can do, okay?"  
  
Willow watched her go, swallowing. She wasn't exactly sure what she would talk to Spike about, but . . . she would try. She opened the bedroom door and flicked on the light.   
  
Spike rolled over to face her, blinking. "Ah. Willow. Hello," he said dully. He sat up, favoring his left hand, which she could see was bandaged. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking the position Buffy had been sitting in moments before. "You sure you're in the right room?"  
  
"Yeah," Willow said nervously. "I wanted to talk to you." She walked forward, sat on the bed, leaving them a few feet between each other. "How are you?"  
  
"It's better here," he said slowly. "Easier to think, to talk. She's doing her best."  
  
"Yeah?" Willow ventured. "That's good -- "  
  
"Except she shouldn't be," Spike said, staring at the floor. "I -- she shouldn't be bothering herself with this. With me. I need to go."  
  
"Spike, she *wants* to help you," Willow said, reaching out and touching his shoulder. He stared at her, seemingly confused. "We -- we don't want you to go."  
  
He snorted. "Oh, yeah, like I'm gonna believe that."  
  
"No, it's true," she insisted. "I mean, why would she be helping you if she wanted you out of here?"  
  
He shrugged. "She's always been a bit off her nut, that one." He chuckled dryly.  
  
"Well, I -- I don't want you to go," she said hesitantly. She had never particularly liked Spike, true, but she had never been one for hating him, either. "I know you've changed. That you deserve a second chance."  
  
His gaze pierced her. "Oh really. When did you get all forgiving and un-vengeful? I'd've thought you'd be all for flaying me, or something equally delightful," he said sharply, his face souring.  
  
She drew back, stung, blinking away tears. She took a deep breath, looking away.   
  
His voice was suddenly soft. "I'm sorry. I -- God. You see? Can't keep my mouth shut." She looked back at him, and was surprised to see that he looked genuinely contrite.  
  
"Well -- maybe we can work on that --"  
  
Ignoring her comment, he said quietly, "She said she forgave me. And I told her all right." He hung his head. "I lied. It's not all right. Never will be. I don't deserve it, you know."  
  
"But Spike," Willow said carefully, "they gave *me* a second chance."   
  
He glanced at her, a calculating look on his face. "Oh, no, no, you see, you were always good. Always with them. You get automatic amnesty. Wouldn't have mattered if you'd killed one, two, a thousand -- they'd've found a way to take you back. You're one of them." His voice trailed off and he lowered his eyes. "Me, I -- you hated me. You all did. I tried to kill you, you tried to kill me, it was a good system." He laughed mirthlessly. "But then I got that sodding chip, and the system broke down. We helped each other out -- well, reluctantly I admit, but we did. I -- I remember, even, that you wouldn't let me stake myself, once."  
  
"I remember," Willow said gently.  
  
"Everything got screwed up. I didn't want to kill you anymore. And her -- well, love's a funny thing, that's all I've got to say about that. But I was never a Scooby." He gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. "Never one of you. And I never will be."   
  
"Spike. . . . Look. You went and got your *soul*! That's worth something. It is." She smiled at him reassuringly.  
  
"It was very stupid," Spike said patiently, as if explaining something to a child. "I thought it would make her love me. Thought it would make me a -- a man. Not an it. Not something evil." Seeing her face, he quickly added, "But not something good, even. Wasn't *that* stupid. But I thought I would be a man again. And I thought it would be enough." He laughed, the sound short and harsh. "God, I was stupid."   
  
Willow folded her hands in her lap, unsure of how to respond. What did a person say to that?   
  
Before she could formulate a response he continued, his voice breaking. "I should've known. Should've known she'd never have me. Should've known I'd done too much to ever be with her. Should've known everything." He shivered, suddenly, and she again reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.   
  
"We're going to help you, Spike," she said firmly, though in the back of her mind she wondered exactly how they would do that.   
  
"You always were the one to give me the benefit of the doubt," he said dryly. "Even after all those times I tried to kill you. I'm sorry about that, now, you know," he added, almost as an afterthought.   
  
"Oh! Um, well, yeah. It's okay," Willow said, shrugging. "I barely even remember." She smiled.  
  
He pulled away from her hand to lie down on his back, his legs still hanging over the side of the bed. He flung his arms out and lay there, from the waist up looking like Jesus on the cross. He gazed at the ceiling, his eyes dark. "She's trying very hard. I ought to thank her; that would be the proper thing. But it's all useless. I don't expect we'll be worrying much about Spike and his soul in a few months. No, I think we'll all have other things to worry about then . . . well, just the one, really. The big one." He closed his eyes.   
  
A chill ran through her as she recalled her experience back in England, when she had felt the darkness below the earth. She swallowed and stood up. The conversation was over. Without a word she strode to the door, walked into the hall, and closed the door behind her without a second glance.  
  
*****  
  
"And that was all?" Buffy asked, toweling her hands dry. She leaned against the kitchen counter, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.   
  
Willow nodded. "Yep. Said we wouldn't need to worry about him anymore with what's . . . coming. And . . . yeah. That was it."  
  
Buffy set the towel down, frowning. "Well, at least he wasn't babbling, right? That's something."  
  
"That's true," Willow said slowly. "But it was really depressing, all the same. Him going off on how you shouldn't be helping him and everything. If I didn't think he'd changed before, I'd know it now."  
  
Buffy sighed, looked up at the clock. "It's getting late. Dawn ought to be home. School's been out two hours," she said, sounding a little worried. "Maybe she talked to her math teacher about that test she had Monday, she thought she flunked it. . . ."  
  
"That's probably it," Willow agreed. But Buffy was still frowning.   
  
There was the soft sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Buffy and Willow turned around to see Spike walk into the kitchen, his hands behind his back. "Been thinking," he said, glancing at Willow.  
  
"Yeah, that's what Will was saying," Buffy replied. "Good to see you've calmed down."  
  
"Yes. Well. About that." He looked a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I -- frightened you."  
  
Buffy shrugged. "You did. It's okay, though."  
  
"No. It's not. You helping me -- it's very noble, Slayer, but not the brightest thing you've ever done. And believe me, you've done some stupid things over the years."  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks, Spike. I'm not feeling the love here." She crossed her arms.  
  
"I meant -- well, never mind what I meant," he muttered, seeming mildly annoyed. "But my point, Buffy, was that this is silly. Really and truly silly. And I won't have you doing it." He leaned back against the wall.   
  
Willow glanced at the two of them. "You know what, I'm just gonna go upstairs and get started on my homework," she said, shaking her head. "But Spike, just knock it off already." She slipped past him, and Buffy glared at him.  
  
"I suppose you're going to launch into some diatribe about how evil you are, and how you're beneath me, and don't deserve my help?" Buffy asked, now annoyed herself.  
  
He blinked, looking a little startled. "That was the plan, yes." He looked flustered. "Uh, what I mean to say is, you ought to just let me be. I'll be all right. Don't need you to hold my hand anymore." He fell silent and she could tell he had been on the verge of saying "But I want you to."  
  
"Spike, I think this afternoon shows that I can't just let you be. Besides, don't I get a say in this? There's no turning back here. I *have* to help you." She paused, looking down at the floor. "Believe it or not, I don't like to see you hurt."  
  
He chuckled. "That so? Or did I imagine that night where --"  
  
She held up a hand, swallowing, seeing again his face bruised, swollen, bloody. "I do remember. And I'm sorry. I've already told you that." She approached him, her eyes soft. She reached out a hand and gently touched his cheek. "Believe me."  
  
Hesitantly he reached out, laid his cold and bandaged hand atop hers. "Didn't plan for this," he said, his eyes clear, trusting. His voice was hoarse. "Didn't rehearse this part."  
  
She smiled.  
  
Suddenly he pulled away from her, knocking her hand from his face. He looked angry with himself. "Stupid, that was." He looked up at her. "Sorry. Sorry. Look, I'm going now. I can't stay here." He strode to the front door; she ran after him, grabbed him by the forearm. "I won't stay here."  
  
"For God's sake, Spike --"  
  
He whirled to look at her. His face was terrifying; he hadn't vamped out, but instead he looked so cold and furious that she withdrew. Every line of his face, from the set of his jaw to the harsh furrow in his forehead, spoke of icy anger. "Let go of me, Slayer." His voice was terrible, filled with a darkness she had never heard.  
  
Slowly, she released her grip on his arm. "Fine." She bowed her head. "Fine."  
  
He opened the door roughly, stepping out into the twilight. He stopped at the end of the walk and looked back at her. She stood in the doorway, watching him.  
  
"I'm not revoking your invitation," she called. "Not doing it." He frowned, turned, and stalked away.  
  
Closing the door, she sighed loudly, and checked her watch. Dawn still wasn't home.  
  
*****  
  
Feedback makes the world go round! At least, my tiny one. Next chapter shall come along soon. :) 


	6. Solution

Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"  
  
Feedback: Criticism, praise and suggestions will be happily accepted at gjohnson@willamette.edu  
  
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless"  
  
Summary: Buffy gets serious about helping Spike, and enlists the aid of the rest of the Scoobies.  
  
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Xander, etc., are not mine and never will be. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Dawn stared miserably at the math test clutched in her hands. Her footfalls on the sidewalk were quiet; a breeze whipped up behind her, blowing her hair into her eyes. She sighed. Two hours she had spent with her math teacher, and she was just as confused now as she had been the day of the test. She crumpled up the paper, obscuring the big red F, and shoved it into her backpack.  
  
She put her hands in her pockets, shaking her head. She looked up and realized it was getting dark. Stupid Daylight Savings Time. She suddenly thought that she should have called Buffy and told her she was going to be late.  
  
"*Totally* stupid," she muttered, keeping her head down and staring at the sidewalk. She quickened her pace. It was getting darker.  
  
She found herself on a dimly lit street. Uneasily she hurried along it, wishing for a stake. She reached for her cell phone, then remembered she'd used up this month's minutes. She cursed under her breath. She rounded the corner --   
  
And was promptly knocked down by someone hurrying the other way.  
  
She blinked, lying on the ground. "What the hell?" she said angrily. The person backed away into the dim light cast by a streetlight.  
  
"Sorry," a girl said. She was short, scared-looking. She reached out her hand and Dawn took it, letting the girl pull her up. "I didn't mean to. . . ."  
  
Dawn brushed her shirt off. "Oh, um, it's okay. Really. Happens all the time." She looked up to give the girl a smile, and screamed.  
  
The girl had vamped out; she lunged for Dawn, but with a well-placed kick Dawn managed to send the girl stumbling. She whirled and ran the other way, her heart pounding.  
  
The girl tackled her and Dawn let out a scream as she crashed to the ground. Dawn kicked out, arching her back and thrusting upwards, throwing the girl off her. She scrambled to her feet and faced the vampire, trembling. "Get the hell away from me!"  
  
"Sorry, but I'm just *dying* for a snack," the girl smirked, licking her lips and getting to her feet. She snickered, then darted forward to knock Dawn down again. She straddled Dawn's back, pinning her arms against her.  
  
Dawn struggled desperately against the girl, trying to kick her. But the girl was sitting too high up on Dawn's back. Dawn filled her lungs for a scream, but the vampire clapped her hand over Dawn's mouth. "None of that, now," the vampire laughed. She shifted her weight to lean forward, to go in for the kill -- Dawn closed her eyes -- fangs scraped her neck --  
  
The girl let out a scream; Dawn heard footsteps, felt the girl being wrenched off of her. Dawn quickly got to her hands and knees and crawled a few feet away, then shakily stood up and turned around in time to see Spike slamming the girl into a rundown white picket fence. "We -- can share --" the girl managed to choke past Spike's death grip on her throat. He answered by shoving her again into the fence. One particularly long picket went straight through the girl's chest; a look of surprise crossed her face before she turned to dust.  
  
Spike turned to stare at Dawn. "Niblet?" he asked incredulously.   
  
"Spike?" She was just as amazed.  
  
"Are you all right? She get you?" Spike asked, hurrying over to her. Concernedly he reached out and touched the twin marks on her neck.  
  
"Just barely," Dawn admitted, brushing his hand away. "I -- thanks, Spike." She was suddenly torn between yelling at him and throwing her arms around him. After a moment's deliberation, she hugged him quickly. He stared at her, shock in his eyes.  
  
"I thought you hated me?" he asked quietly as she withdrew.  
  
"Oh. That." She shrugged, looking embarrassed. "Well, uh, maybe I don't hate you. Maybe I just really, really, intensely dislike you."  
  
"Fair enough." He paused, looking at her. "Buffy's gonna be pissed. You do realize that, don't you? After dark and all . . . almost eaten. . . ."  
  
"Shut up, okay?" Dawn said crossly. "I had a good excuse. I had to stay after for my stupid math teacher." She sighed. "You'll, um, back me up, won't you?"  
  
He blinked. "I. . . ." He shrugged. "All right."  
  
*****  
  
Buffy hadn't gone two blocks before she saw Dawn round the corner, Spike trailing along behind her. She stopped, lowering the stake she held in her hand. "Dawn, get your butt inside!" she snapped.   
  
Dawn walked to her sister, bowing her head. "Sorry I didn't tell you I was staying late, Buffy."   
  
"Yeah, well. . . ." Buffy let out a sigh, running her hand through her hair. "Just as long as you're okay --" She stopped, seeing red scratches on Dawn's neck. "*Are* you okay?"  
  
"Um." Dawn smiled weakly. Spike stopped behind her, looking gravely at Buffy.  
  
"Vampire," he said, his voice quiet. "Pulled it off her not ten minutes ago."  
  
Buffy stared at her sister. "Dawn? Is this true?"  
  
Dawn nodded. "Yeah. Spike -- he saved me. He dusted her like nobody's business." She gave Buffy a small smile. "If ithadn't been for Spike. . . ." She broke off, seeming unwilling to finish the sentence.  
  
Buffy looked at the both of them, taking in Dawn's dirtied knees and reddened neck, Spike's questioning eyes and bandaged hand. "Spike. Weren't you just saying that you had to leave? Yet here you are again."  
  
He drew himself up to his full height. "Well, I couldn't just leave the Bit to fend for herself."  
  
Dawn scowled. "Hey!" She turned half around and elbowed him. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself --"  
  
"Except when you aren't," Buffy finished. She crossed her arms, staring at the two of them. "Well, come on, dinner's ready." Dawn began walking to the house, wasting no time. Spike, however, hung back, looking at the ground.  
  
Buffy stepped towards him. She reached out and touched his arm. "Thank you. For helping her." She took a deep breath. "You know, you're invited too."  
  
He stared at her, indecision dancing in his eyes. She knew very well how much he wanted to take back his earlier words and join them. She inched her hand down his arm to take his hand in hers, intertwining her fingers with his. He swallowed.  
  
"Don't do this to yourself," she whispered. "Let us help you." She squeezed his hand. His fingers were cold, but soft.   
  
"Buffy!" Dawn's voice yelled. "Get a move-on already!"  
  
Buffy tore her hand from Spike's and turned around. "Hang on!" She looked nervously back at Spike, wondering if Dawn had seen her holding his hand. "Uh, come on, Spike."  
  
He pretended to look annoyed. "If -- if you insist. But there had better be some blood for me. I'm starving."  
  
She grinned. "Picked some up this afternoon. Fresh from the pig." She looked down at the ground. "Come on. Dawn'll get -- ideas."  
  
He chuckled, the sound low, smooth, easy. "And we know we wouldn't want that to happen, now would we?"  
  
*****  
  
Xander sat sullenly on the couch, arms crossed, a scowl on his face. Willow sat next to him, smiling nervously. Dawn was perched on the arm of the couch, not meeting the gaze of Buffy, who stood before the three of them. Buffy had left Spike down in the basement, reclining on the cot with a mug of blood and staring up at the ceiling.  
  
Buffy cleared her throat. "I tried to call Anya but she wouldn't pick up. So, we'll just have to start without her."  
  
Xander raised an eyebrow. "Maybe the fact that you drove a sword through her chest a few days ago has something to do with it."   
  
Buffy fixed him with a glare. "Xander, I didn't have any choice. And she's all right now. . . ." She faltered. "I think. . . ." She shook her head. "But we're not here to talk about Anya --"  
  
"We'll save that for the next Scooby council of war," Dawn said brightly. Buffy glared at her too.  
  
"We're here to talk about Spike." Xander rolled his eyes, and Buffy frowned. "He's different. Any moron could see that. He went and got his *soul.* And that means that he deserves to be helped."  
  
"Oh, please. I'm sure his soul is just as twisted as his . . . um . . . non-soul," Xander said, frowning. "I mean, serial killers have souls, don't they? But you don't see them going all Mother Teresa on people -- instead, they make with the death and the blood and the butchering. . . ."  
  
"You don't understand," Willow said. "This means that he knows everything he's done -- and feels remorse for it. He *has* to. I don't think he was bad when he was human."  
  
Buffy nodded. "He's guilty, he's remorseful -- and also more than a little insane. He needs someplace to stay until he can get back on his feet --"  
  
"You want us to nurse him back to health?" Xander asked incredulously.  
  
"Think about it. If it was you who was crazy what would you want us to do? Leave you insane in the basement?"  
  
Xander shrugged. "Works for me. And besides, it's *not* me. It's Spike. Spike, our good buddy, the murderous vampire *who tried to rape you.*" His words were icy. "Buffy, *why* do you care?"  
  
She took a deep breath. "Xander, I told you. This isn't me -- falling in love with him or anything. This is me recognizing what he did for me -- he got a soul -- and realizing that he's changed."  
  
"And I see it too," Willow added. Xander looked at them and sighed.  
  
"Fine. So we'll help him. But where is he staying?" he asked.  
  
Buffy shrugged. "There's three choices. One -- he stays here." Xander shook his head violently. "Two -- he stays with Anya. She's ex-demon, she might be able to help him more than we could. But, there is the fact that I tried to kill her the other week. And the fact that you *probably* don't want him staying with her. So, that one's probably out."  
  
"What's number three?" Dawn asked.  
  
"He stays with Xander."  
  
"*What?*" Xander choked.  
  
"Think about it!" Buffy wheedled. "You'll be perfectly safe. He can't hurt you -- he's still got the chip, I've seen it work -- and he won't be a threat to me or Anya. It's not like you guys have to be friends. This would just be temporary until he stops with the crazy talk and finds himself a nice crypt. You probably wouldn't even see each other much, since he'll sleep in the day and you at night. . . ."  
  
Xander stared openmouthed at her. "You're serious, aren't you."  
  
"Well, if you don't want to, he can just *stay here* -- with me and Dawn --"  
  
Xander held up a hand. "*Fine.*" He tried to hold back a scowl and failed. "But you owe me, Buffy. Big time."  
  
*****  
  
"*Him?*" Spike gasped in horror. "You want me to stay with *him*?"  
  
"Just until you get back on your feet," Buffy said quickly. "You've done it before and survived. You can do it again."   
  
Spike snorted, setting his mug on the concrete floor and sitting up on the cot. "I only survived because I was already dead, pet."  
  
"Look, it's the best solution we've got, Spike. Take it or leave it."  
  
He looked up at her, frowning, then sighed. "Guess it can't hurt to give it a try. But he better not hog the telly during 'Passions.' God, I miss that show."  
  
She sat down next to him. "They can't have had good reception in the school basement."  
  
He shook his head, suddenly morose, contemplative. "I didn't know this soul thing was gonna be so hard, you know?" he said quietly. "I dunno what I *thought,* but it wasn't this."  
  
She didn't know what to say. She placed a hand on his back, watched as he idly unwrapped the bandage on his hand. The burn was nearly healed already.  
  
"Thank you," he said throatily. "For helping me. You didn't have to."  
  
She smiled softly. "Yeah, I did."  
  
"Buffy?" Xander's voice floated down the stairs. "If we're gonna do this, let's do it now."  
  
Buffy stood up and took hold of Spike's hands, pulling him to his feet. "Time to go. Give it a shot, all right? It's the best we can do right now," Buffy said.  
  
He stared at her, trust in his eyes. He squeezed her hands. "I believe you."  
  
They turned and headed up the stairs, together.  
  
~FIN  
  
Yep, it's done. Thanks to those who reviewed. There may be a sequel... eventually. After all, what was up with Xander's seeming 180 in his attitude towards Spike? In the beginning of "Him" he's horrified at the thought of Spike living with him... yet in "Sleeper" he asks Buffy if Spike is "in trouble" (not "What did Spike do this time?"), and in the following episodes he seems to be reluctantly sticking up for Spike. What changed? Anyway, that would be the sequel, if ever it followed... some Xander/Spike male bonding. But not in *that* way. :) Thanks again. 


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